Not For Sale
by amytheanomaly
Summary: An idea borrowed from a challenge, with much less smut than was requested. Anders has to deal with his pretty self being mistaken for one of the workers at the Blooming Rose constantly. Very short, mild Fenders with heavily implied sexual content, but no actual smut.


"And how much are you worth, sugar?" A very drunk, very husky man asked after Anders.

"Maker's breath," he started, replying with a heavy sigh, "I **don't** work here." He placed his golden head into his hands for support, feeling another headache coming on. This was at least the fiftieth time a customer had mistaken him for one of the escorts, and really, there were so many of them around to choose from. Why did people have to ask him? Sure, the Blooming Rose wasn't your typical place for solitude and relaxation, but at least there he wouldn't receive any strange looks or requests for healing at the end of a very long day.

The boozer behind him became confused for a moment, but was whisked away by a dwarf with promises of all the wonderful things she could do with her beard. The background chatter soon became monotonous like white noise, and Anders quickly returned to his silent reverie. It wasn't that he really minded being asked – it was almost flattering, at least the first twenty times – he just didn't understand why the people would assume that he was one of the wanton men and women scattered around. He looked nothing like them. He was sure he had broader shoulders and some sense of beefcake that even the manliest male elves couldn't hope to convey. The thought alone that he was on par with the effeminates and dainties made him sit up straighter and square his shoulders. He mentally took inventory of his masculine features:

_Stubble.  
Chiseled jawline.  
Dark, mysterious eyes.  
Large but gentle hands.  
Long and slightly touseled hair.  
Shiny, preened feathers..._

_Well it __**was**__ in my favor._

Anders' forehead fell to rest in his hands again, further noting just **how** gentle and smooth his palms were. _Not even a single callus. Damn._ He knew people considered him a bit of a bottom. He'd heard them whisper things when they thought he wasn't paying attention, and most of the words involved were just synonyms for "whiny". He knew he wore his heart on his sleeve, no matter how close he tried to keep his past to himself, but to be called a pansy or fussy was just hurtful. If people only understood the things that Templars were willing to do to mages, even kind and helpful ones such as him, then they might understand why he was so upset all the time. Maybe that was why the patrons at the Blooming Rose mistook him for merchandise, because he portrayed himself as someone willing to do nothing but complain. Maybe he was a bottom.

Just as he was retreating back into a bubble of contemplation to further condemn himself for not being quite hunky enough, a familiar sound resonated over his shoulder.

"I think I've found the one." Anders rolled his eyes and slowly picked up his head, beginning to say once more that he was not for sale, but before he could finish, the person was already at his side.

"I'm going to make you my slave tonight, mage." The voice breathed slowly into his ear with a gravelly velvet only a god should possess. A single clawed finger traced Anders' spine from bottom to top, involuntarily forcing him to straighten himself. The hand stopped at the nape of his neck, prickling the finest hairs before circling around to cup his jawline.

"I know monsters like you would not work here." Anders felt his anger, and other areas, beginning to swell. "Which is why you're going to be free tonight." _Free?! He __**has**__ to be joking. I'm worth more than that!_ Why he was suddenly putting a price tag on himself after denying for months his resemblance to the people of the night, even he was unsure. All he knew was that he needed to snap out of it and tell this bastard off. Being dominant was one thing, but saying he wouldn't even be paid?

"Listen sir, you're mista—" A small nip on his lobe made him pause, but not as much as the moan whispered in his ear, like quietly enjoying a bite of the finest Antivan confections. His pause was long enough to give the voice another opportunity to speak in its glorious auditory perfection.

"And bring Justice with you." Anders laughed, considering the fact that Justice never left, but he and the elf knew he was butter. He took the hand on his face in his own and stood, turning to face the silver-haired god who had just become his first customer. In only a few moments, Anders knew he would be upstairs turning into a puddle of pretty under the man's talented hands. _At least our glows won't clash._

"One more thing, mage."

"Yes?"

"Don't tell Hawke."

"Only if you pay me next time."


End file.
